Limitations
by varietyofwords
Summary: Future fic. Chuck and Blair. "Men cease to interest us when we find their limitations. The only sin is limitation. As soon as you once come up with a man's limitations, it is all over with him."
1. Part One

**Author's Note:** It is impossible for me to write pregnancy stories without drama and angst. Don't say you weren't warned. This story was inspired by an image tagged "Baby Bass" on tumblr and the quote below. Medical information for this story was gleamed from the experience of an acquaintance rather than a medical professional. I have tried to be accurate to the best of my ability.

* * *

"_Men cease to interest us when we find their limitations. The only sin is limitation. As soon as you once come up with a man's limitations, it is all over with him. Has he talents? Has he enterprises? Has he knowledge? It boots not. Infinitely alluring and attractive was he to you yesterday, a great hope, a sea to swim in; now, you have found his shores, found it a pond, and you care not if you ever see it again." _

– _Ralph Waldo Emerson_

* * *

"Mister Chuck," Dorota says with a slight jerk of her body. She is surprised to see him home so early from work, flustered that she did not hear him come in. He does not reply. Instead, his eyes rake over the crumpled bed sheets at Dorota's feet and the bottle of cleaner in her hands. The smell of vomit is stronger, assaulting his nose and overpowering the mix of him and her in their bedroom.

"Was there blood?"

His voice is a contradiction – harsh and soft, unconcerned and terrified. But Dorota's rigid expression relaxes under his steely gaze. She was supposed to keep this incident quiet; Miss Blair made her promise under the threat of deportation not to tell Mister Chuck. But, right now, Chuck Bass is more terrifying than the KGB, more heartbreaking than the resistance fighters turned weak camp prisoners asking for a single slice of bread.

"No blood," she assures him. A raised eyebrow says he thinks she's lying to him. She does not want to show him the sheets, does not want to embarrass her Miss Blair in this way. "I promise, Mister Chuck. No blood."

He nods his head, and Dorota sighs in relief. She wants to gather her new employer in her arms, sooth his worry away like she does for her own children. But the idea is beyond insubordination – pushing closer to grounds for dismissal – and she cannot leave Miss Blair now.

"Did you – "

She cuts off his question because she already knows what he is going to ask. She knows the drill, has been here and executed it so often that she's angry he even has the gall to ask. Yes, she called Doctor Abell and, yes, a nurse from the practice is on their way over to administer an IV. She also knows that his hungry eyes are wondering where his wife is, and she makes sure to tack on an answer about how Miss Blair is taking a bath, trying to wash off the stench and the shame. She lacks the gall to say the last few words, but they hang unspoken between them.

The giant elephant in the room.

His eyes flare in accusation of ineptitude as he strides over towards the en-suite bathroom. Dorota knows better to leave Blair alone in the bath; Dorota knows better than the leave Blair alone ever. Panic courses through him when he slips into the bathroom through the partially ajar door and spies her in the tub – eyes closed, head lulled backwards against the marble.

"Blair?"

Her eyes flutter open, and his presence is rewarded with a smile. A real, genuine smile that pulls at him, drags him down, and drowns him in love. For a moment he can look past all of it and see her – just her. Pulchritudinous her. Exquisite her.

But reality saves him from the riptide. Paper thin skin and translucent veins pulled taut across her bones. The sight makes him ill. She sees it, knows it, and sinks further into the water and the shame. He wants to assure her, but the words are like molasses sticking to the roof of his mouth and making him choke.

So instead he peels off his suit coast, deposits it on the counter, and rolls up his sleeves without a word. She watches with wide eyes as he drops to his knees besides the bathtub and dips the washcloth into the water. She shifts forward slowly when she realizes what he wants, reveals in the feeling of cloth brushing across her because it's tender and…

This is the most he's touched her in weeks.

She cannot help herself – a woman possessed – and captures his lips with her own. She can taste scotch and mint; he can taste bile and ginger ale. They can feel the spark, the electricity and the fire. Her hand cups his cheek; his strokes the nap of her neck.

Habit. All of it.

The bile rises; she cannot avoid it. She breaks the kiss, scrambles for the vile bowl that has been her constant companion of late, and vomits. The acid of her stomach contents burns stronger now as it passes over the raw burns from her previous incidents today. Yesterday. Every damn day.

"We're going to the hospital," he demands when she finishes. She's too weak to protest as he slides his hands around her arms and lifts her from the tepid water. She crashes into him – too weak to stand on her own – and the water from her body soaks his shirt and suit pants.

"No," she whispers against his neck. She does not want to go, does not want to be subjected to invasive questions and procedures until someone actually reads her file. She loops her arm around his neck and places the palm of her free hand against his cheek. "No, Chuck."

"Blair," he snaps, "we're going."

"I'm fine," she assures him, her thumb stroking his jawline. When he scoffs, when he does not relax under her touch, she grabs his hand and pulls it to her naked belly. She slides it over her rounded belly, holds it in the spot her own hand was resting on only minutes ago. "We're fine."

He won't look her in the eye and tries to wretch his hand away. But she won't let him; she won't let him be a coward.

"Feel him, Chuck," she demands. "That's our son. That's _your_ son."

The fluttering against his palm, the kick against his hand causes his own stomach to roll. This is his baby, but this is his wife. This is Blair.

"Please," she beseeches. "Love him. Tell me you love him."

"Blair," he starts, but she interrupts him with fierce determination.

"Three words. Eight letters. Say it."

"Say it, Chuck," she begs with tears in her eyes. He cannot do what she wants; his throat feels tight and dry at the sheer thought. But he also cannot watch her cry; he cannot be complicit in her pain.

"I love you," he finally chokes out. She sobs at his words because they are not the ones she wants to hear. He is quick to plant kisses over her tears. "I love you."

* * *

_The feathering of kisses against his jawline leads him to her delectable neckline. He attacks his favorite spot on her body with gusto before moving onto his other favorite spots – her perky breasts, her taunt bellybutton, her silky curls and slick folds. The contact of her smooth palm against his dick catches him by surprise, and she gives him a wicked grin as she slides her hand down his shaft._

"_Blair," he groans as her thumb slides across his leaking head. His eyes roll backwards; his head swarming and cloudy so that he thinks he must be too far gone when he hears her speak._

"_Wake up, Chuck."_

"_Huh?" He mumbles before gasping as her grip tightens. _

"_Wake up, Chuck," she directs again, and his eyes flutter open with a groan. They are no longer in the back of the limo, and he's surprised to find himself flat on his back in the middle of their bed. The bright sunlight hurts his eyes and he blinks once. Twice. Releases another groan at the friction of his wife's hand against him._

"_God," he gasps._

"_Nuh huh," Blair hums against his shoulder. "Not God. Just me."_

"_Blair," he corrects as she hooks her leg over his torso and hoovers her body over his groin. The negligee and panties she wore to bed last night have been shed, and now she's teasing him in all her naked glory. But no matter where he touches – her nipples, her legs, her hips – she will not let him slide into her wetness._

"_Don't tease me," he groans as she rakes her nails across his chest._

"_Do you want to put a condom on?"_

_His brain feels foggy as she places a kiss against his Adam's apple. He rarely wears condoms now that they are married, only when she's worried about making a mess in the limo or on her dress._

"_I haven't put in the ring," she confesses with a trace of apprehension in her voice. _

"_I don't want to use it anymore," she clarifies when he does not respond. _

_Despite the fogginess, the implications of her statements are quiet clear. With one swift motion, he rolls her on to her back, slides in, and captures her lips in a searing kiss. The words are mumbled against her pebbled skin as she gasps._

"_Our baby is going to be so loved."_

* * *

He chooses to hide out at the van der Bass penthouse in the room that was never really his rather than recuperate from his minor, outpatient surgery at the home he shares with his wife. Lily does not quite accept his reason for being here, but she is also rather accustomed to his cryptic answers and actions. Instead, she excuses herself for a private art auction at Sotheby's and instructs him to make himself at home. He is not quite sure that directive extends to her collection of frozen vegetables, but he needs something to help quell the swelling.

He would really like to take a nap, but he needs to finish reading these last two proposals. There is no rest for the weary; no rest for the CEO of a major, multibillion dollar company. He'll sleep when he's dead or, better yet, when he is all healed up and can stand for Blair to wiggle against him in his sleep. The stirring at the thought alone causes him to groan at the pain, and he presses the peas closer to his groin.

"Chuck?"

He need not drop the proposal from his line of sight to know that it is her, but he does anyways because he is desperately hoping his mind is playing tricks on him. But there she is, flawless and inquisitive.

"Lily called. She said you were here."

"Acting strange," she adds after a long pause.

Inwardly, he chastises Lily for her betrayal and himself for coming here rather than returning to work or checking himself into a room at the Empire. Of course, going to the office with his bag of peas would have raised many an eyebrow. He does not need his employees thinking he has been fixed, muzzled, no longer a raging bull in the boardroom or the bedroom. And checking into a hotel – even one that he owns – would create fodder for the gossip mongers out there. Surely this was a better alternative than letting his pregnant wife think he is stepping on her?

He can see the jest forming on her lips when she spots the bag of peas attached to his groin, and had it been a few months ago he could almost count on the next words out of her mouth to be about how Blair Waldorf the virgin managed to break the great Chuck Bass.

But this is today, and the lightness in their interactions is gone. She looks positively sickened; she always looks sickened these days. But this is different, and he can see her recoil in disgust.

"Chuck, tell me you didn't."

He cannot look her in the eyes, feels like a disobedient child caught in the disappointed glare of a parent. It isn't until he hears that horrible retching noise that he is able to look at her.

She vomits again; the mixture leaving an ugly stain on Lily's pristine carpet and splashing back onto her shoes and bare legs. He scrambles out of bed towards her. His signature slide is complicated by the pain, and he hisses when she jerks away from him.

"How could you?" She bemoans as she wipes her mouth with the back of her palm. "I told you not to do this."

"It's my body," he throws back at her. These are the same words she has thrown at him every time they dissolve into that particular argument. This was his decision, the only one he has been given in all of this.

"It's our future," she replies sharply. "I wanted the option of more."

"I can't do this to you again."

"You don't know that. I didn't do this with my firs—"

It is the wrong choice of words for both of them. The fact that she was never this sick the first time around only further fuels the guilt and responsibility he feels. The idea of even talking about her first baby is too hard for her to stomach. She has spent far too much being vigilant, comparing this pregnancy to that one wondering why things are so different and worrying over how she can change the outcome.

And it is not fair because she's making the choice to give him a family. Sacrificing her body and her time and her love and her health more than she ever thought possible just to give him the one thing he has always desired but been too afraid to wish for – a family. Yet, there he is, making a decision that robs them of future possibilities.

"I hate you, Chuck Bass."


	2. Part Two

"_That's a little small for you, don't you think?"_

_He drops the item in his hand like he's been burned. It falls to his desk, the bright purple a stark contrast to the white and brown of his paper covered desk. He balls the item up in his hand; his reflex to hide kicking in as he glares at his best friend for the intrusion._

"_Hello to you, too, Nathaniel. Is there something I can help you with?"_

"_The Spectator just announced profits in the last quarter for the first time. I thought we could go out and celebrate."_

_For a moment, Chuck considers offering his friend some business advice – take your profits and invest them in your company. Don't blow it all in one place in one sitting. But Nate looks so damn excited and besides, with the attention of a guppy, the man has already moved onto another topic._

"_Besides, looks like you need a new bowtie. That one in your hand isn't even going fit around your wrist. What happen to it? Dorota send it through the wash?"_

"_It's not for me, Nathaniel," Chuck snaps as he drops the bowtie into the top drawer of desk. He tidies his desk up for a bit before ushering his friend towards the door to his office._

"_Who's it for then? It looks like it would fit a kid, and who do you know that has a kid that wears bowties?"_

_The question hangs in the air between them. Chuck doesn't know what to say and, quite frankly, he enjoys watching Nate work through his own question as a confused Nate makes some interesting facial expressions._

"_Chuck, are you and…Is Blair…"_

"_Pregnant?" He offers, growing impatient with how slow Nate is on the uptake. "Eleven weeks."_

"_And you're happy about this?"_

_Chuck throws his best friend a look of confusion. After everything, how can his best friend even be asking him this question?_

"_Ecstatic," he corrects before opening the door to his office. He instructs his secretary to push back his one o'clock meeting and call him only if necessary. Nate follows behind like an obedient puppy, silent until the two step into the private elevator._

"_I'm really happy for you, man," Nate offers as he clasps his hand on the back. "A baby, huh? Is that what the dinner next week is about?"_

"_Yes, so don't say anything to Blair. She wants to tell everyone at once."_

"_Secret's safe with me. How's Blair handling the news that it's a boy?"_

_He gives Chuck a grimace over the thought. All their lives Blair Waldorf had told them she would have one child – a girl. Boys were entirely outside the realm of possibility for her and her husband. Of course, at the time, the husband and father-to-be had been Nate Archibald so maybe things have changed, Nate muses to himself._

"_How did you graduate high school? Blair's still in her first trimester. It's too early to tell if the baby is a boy or girl."_

"_What's with the bowtie then?"_

"_Father's intuition," Chuck replies. "There hasn't been a Bass girl in…ever."_

_Nate cracks a smile, makes a joke about how karma would give Chuck Bass a little girl. It would be funny if the thought wasn't so terrifying. A miniature Blair? He wouldn't stand a chance._

* * *

He finds her in a working class neighborhood in Queens. His personal private investigator, the security staff at Bass Industries and the Empire Hotel, and his guy at the Twenty-Fourth Precinct have all been pulled on the case.

The fact is he should have started with his missing wife's closest confident. Not the blonde who spills her guts when she think she's being helpful, but the woman who told him that she wouldn't crack for the KGB so she sure has hell wasn't going to confess to Chuck Bass.

"Mister Bass," Vanya stammers out when he opens the door to his house and finds the formidable man on his doorstep.

"Vanya," Chuck says, "I believe my wife is here."

"Yes, sir," Vanya replies, opening the door wider so as to let him in. His movements are cut short by his stout wife, who grabs the door and glares at her husband for his traitorous actions.

"Mister Chuck," Dorota greets icily, "we not accepting visitors. This is private home."

The answer is not satisfactory. Not even close. And Chuck Bass is not above threatening his own employee to get what he wants. But Dorota's allegiance runs deep, and she's very quick to point out that while she may work in his home, her salary is still paid for by Miss Eleanor, who transferred her employment to her daughter following the wedding. She is untouchable.

"Dorota," her voice trails out to him like a melody. "I'll talk to him."

The door swings wider to expose his wife. Dorota slips away with a fleeting look of concern for her and a glare for him, and then it is just him and her standing on the tiny front steps of Dorota and Vanya's house in the middle of Queens.

He wants to pull her into his arms, wants to express relief over finding her safe and sound. Except she is supposed to be at home on modified bed rest not in the middle of Queens with her arms across her belly like he is the biggest threat to her health.

"What are you doing here, Chuck?"

"The better is question is: what are you doing here, Blair? Because I've spent the last five hours traipsing around the city looking for my wife, who is supposed to be at home in bed. Not moving farther than the bathroom."

"One taxi ride isn't going to kill me."

"You took a taxi? To Queens? Jesus, Blair. No wonder Arthur had no bloody idea where you were."

"That was the point."

"The point? You were trying to scare me?"

"I was trying to get out of that suffocating room. I wanted to spend time with people who are actually excited about this baby."

"You didn't need to come all the way to Queens for that," he retorts.

"Really? Because you can't even say the word."

"What word?"

"Pregnant. Baby. Son," she offers. "Take your pick."

_My wife is pregnant with our baby, my son_.

That's what she wants to hear. She wants him to hold her, run his hands over her swollen form, and whisper in her ear words of adoration and love for the little boy she's carrying. It's not that he does not want to this to her; it's that he physically cannot do so.

"I know you love me," she tells him as she steps forward and captures his face between her hands. "And I know you're scared because you love him, but I won't let you do this. You think that by pretending he doesn't exist you can save yourself from any pain. But you're wrong, Chuck, because this is already killing you."

He reaches up, pulls her hands away from his face, and watches her chin quiver. The scene is eerily similar; the emotions rawer than ever before.

"Stop telling me how I feel!"

The slap against his face stuns him. His cheek feels enflamed, and the sound reverberates in his ears.

"Don't you dare," she snaps. "Don't you dare pull this on me again. You can't hide from me, Chuck Bass. I can see right through you."

"Then you should know there's nothing there."

* * *

"_Mister Bass, Mrs. Waldorf-Bass," Doctor Bertram greets warmly as she strolls into the exam room. Her patient gives her a weak smile; the red of her lipstick a harsh contrast to the sickly paleness of her face. _

"_Still suffering from morning sickness, huh?" Doctor Bertram asks before glancing back at the recent notes her nurse made in Blair Waldorf-Bass' medical file today. The numbers she sees seem off her to her, and she gives the nurse assisting her today an odd look. Nurse Shelley discreetly nods her head, confirming the accuracy of the numbers she wrote down less than twenty minutes ago._

"_This is more than morning sickness," her patient's husband interjects sharply. His wife tries to grab his hand, tries to mollify his anger with her presence as he speaks. "The book said she should be done with this by now. You said she would be done with this."_

_The accusation is harsh but in the short time Doctor Bertram has known Mister Bass, she has become accustomed to his tone. The doctor knows an irrationally terrified first-time father when she sees one, and she justifies the variation between this pregnancy and the book as natural variation. After all, every pregnancy is different because every patient is different._

_Still, the numbers are worrisome and the quick calculation she performs in her head is alarming given her patient's history. She puts on her assuring face, though, and makes her way through the examination without ringing the bells of alarm. _

"_Mister Bass," Doctor Bertram says as she removes her latex gloves and drops them in the waste bin, "would you please follow Nurse Shelley out to the front office? There's some paperwork I need you to fill out. Family history and such."_

_Chuck eyes her warily, looking from her to his wife with suspicion. Eventually, with a quick kiss on his wife's temple, he relents and follows the nurse out of the exam room. Her patient turns a hawk-eye glare at her doctor and splays her hand protectively across her belly. _

"_Is something wrong?"_

_The anxiety is thick in her voice. She doesn't understand why her doctor singled her out, but knows that dismissing Chuck is completely out of character for how these appointments should go._

"_Blair," Doctor Bertram begins gently, "I'm concerned about your weight gain. You should be gaining at minimum half a pound a week, but you've lost weight since conception."_

_Her patient at least has the decency to look shame faced, thus in turn confirming the doctor's fears. _

"_Given your history –"_

"_I'm not bulimic," Blair injects sharply. The doctor raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow at her patient, and the silent accusation sends her over the edge._

"_I'm not! I'm pregnant," Blair replies dismissively. "I have horrific morning sickness. I literally cannot keep anything down."_

"_Blair –"_

"_Mrs. Waldorf-Bass," Blair corrects. She won't allow this woman to accuse her yet still act familiar with her._

"_Mrs. Waldorf-Bass," the doctor says, "this weight loss is alarming and abnormal. For someone with bulimia, losing control of your body during pregnancy can be frightening, and it is important that you talk to someone and keep this under control. The return of your disease poses a significant threat to your health and the health of your baby."_

"_I'm not purposely hurting my baby. I would never hurt my baby."_

* * *

Arthur barely stops the car when he wrenches open the door and starts running towards the hospital entrance. The emergency room is busy, and it takes longer than he would like to get directions to the labor and delivery floor. His knees feel week as he rides the elevator to the sixth floor, and his head spins when he spies Lily and Dorota huddled together at the end of the hallway.

The scene is far too familiar, and he winces as the images his mind digs up. Dorota's uniform stained with blood is never far from the forefront of his mind, and now his stomach rolls as he gives her starch white apron an onceover.

"Charles," Lily greets when she spies him. Dorota and Lily are by his side in a flash, guiding him towards the appropriate room and bombarding him with answers before he can even ask the questions.

"Eleanor and Serena are with her," Lily informs him. "Doctor Abell has been paged and should be here soon."

"Blood?" He can barely stammer out the question, and both women give him an odd look when he finally strings together the letters.

"Mister Chuck," Dorota questions, "did you not listen to whole message? Miss Blair go into labor. She have baby."

"Labor?"

"Yes, Charles," Lily confirms as she opens the door to the hospital room. "Her water broke as she was opening presents."

It's the women in his life who compel him forward, pushing him to the room and offering him grins of excitement. The women in her life are hovering over her, smoothing back her hair and offering her ice chips.

"Chuck," she whispers when she spies him. There are far too many machines hooked to her and although he has been accustomed to seeing an IV in her arm, the multiple bands around her rounded belly and the machines hung around her bed are concerning. He has to swallow the thickness in his throat as he stumbles towards her bedside.

"Your son takes after you," Serena interjects before he can respond. "Trying to crash a party he wasn't invited to."

He tries to give his step-sister a faint smile at her joke, but his eyes are locked on Blair's and he is too busy trying to connect with her to care. Eleanor steps aside, allowing him to take her spot by Blair's bed, and he's grateful to his mother-in-law for the gesture. He gingerly picks up Blair's hand and tries to bring it to his lips for a kiss, but she will have none of it and wrenches her hand away.

"What do you think you're doing here?"

"B," Serena chastises.

"My mother and Serena will stay with me," she informs him coldly. "You can wait outside with Dorota and Lily."

"Blair," he begins. He wants to stay because while his heart is already pounding in fear, he cannot even stomach the idea of sitting outside and missing this. He needs to be here, needs to hoover over her and make sure that she is receiving the best care possible.

"I don't need you here," she snaps. "I don't want you."

He glances at his mother-in-law, mother, maid, and step-sister but none of them will look him in the eye, none of them will come to his aid. He wants to tell his wife that her eyes and her mouth do not match, wants to assure her that he will not leave her alone in this. But then her entire body tenses, she's gripping the hell out her best friend's hand as she rides out the contraction, and he will give her anything she wants just to make this all stop.

"Go!" She screams at him. "Just go!"

He stumbles out of the birthing suite into the harsh light of the hallway. His heart is racing so hard that he can barely catch his breath. His mother is calling after him, telling him that she's in labor and emotional and will change her mind. But he is too anxious to care, too busy running his hand through his perfectly arranged hair to really register his words. He tries to formulate a plan of action as he stands stunned in the middle of the hallway.

Lily manages to get him to move to the waiting room at the end of the hallway. She offers to fetch him a cup of terrible coffee from the cafeteria and tries to give him a reassuring squeeze of the hand. But he doesn't want her assurances; he doesn't deserve her assurances. Eventually, his adopted mother chooses to get that cup of coffee for herself rather than sit next to him, leaving him alone to his thoughts and fears.

The rest of the waiting room is filled with excited grandparents and relatives of other patients. No one else appears to be father; no one else appears to be strumming with fear the way he is. He's making the others nervous; he's making himself nervous. So, without a second thought, he picks up his chair, relocates it outside the door to her room, and takes a seat. He will not move from this spot.


	3. Part Three

"_Miss Blair, maybe going out not such good idea," Dorota says softly as she cleans the vomit off the carpet in the master bedroom. This is the fourth time since Miss Blair arrived home from Waldorf Designs earlier this afternoon, and Dorota is fearful of how high the number of incidents actually is today. _

_Miss Blair banned her from the office last week after she made the mistake of trying to get her to lay down one too many times. No one can make Miss Blair stay in bed when she is ill other than Mister Chuck, but calling him is not an option. She would like to keep her job, thank you very much._

"_I'm fine, Dorota," Blair assures her as she runs slips on the dress Dorota laid out for the evening. "This is a very important night for Bass Industries, and it's imperative that I be there to support Chuck."_

"_Yes, but –"_

"_No buts," Blair snaps as she works on hooking her latest gift from Chuck around her wrist. The new emerald bracelet compliments her dress perfectly, but the clasp is rather small and the struggles to focus on what she's doing. _

_Her vision blurs; the all too familiar wave of nauseous washing over her as the room begins to spin. Her already pale complexion becomes paler – alarming Dorota and causing the woman to jump to her feet. She tries to push her employer towards the bathroom, hoping to save her from further embarrassment, but Blair barely makes it two steps before she vomits again. Her beloved employee is standing too close, and they both suffer from splash back. The color fails to stand out against Blair's evening gown, but the stain is highly visible against Dorota's starch white apron._

_Red._

_Blood red._

_She passes out twice on the way to the hospital. Her lucidity strong enough only to draw the connection between this incident and the last time she lost a baby. There is no stretcher and there are no paramedics frantically working on her, but there is blood and there is a town car speeding through the city. The doctors admit her after Dorota tears through the emergency room screaming in broken English and Polish about blood and babies. _

_The doctor on call focuses on her lower half, pulling up her dress and sliding apart her legs so he can see just how bad the blood loss is. She drifts in and out through the procedure, barely able to focus on the fact that the doctor is saying there is no blood loss. She feels weak and cold, and she shivers even after the nurse wraps her in multiple blankets. _

_But even she cannot miss the appearance of her husband. She can hear him yelling down the hall and if the situation wasn't so terrifying, she would laugh at the fact that he's running in his expensive Italian loafers. Chuck Bass never runs. Not in gym class, not in Central Park. She can barely keep her eyes open as Dorota greets him; wants to shut them immediately when she sees just how panicked and disheveled he looks. _

_She fails to formulate the words to say hello, and instead mumbles something unintelligible that peaks his concern rather than diminishes it. He presses a kiss to her fingers, marvels over how cold they feel. _

_This is not okay; this is not alright. _

_The doctor is ambushed by questions, but he is quick to return his own: How far along is her pregnancy? How long has it been since she last ate? How much weight has she gained? He wants to know all the hows when all Chuck wants to know is the whys. _

_Words like malnourished and starvation are thrown out as the nurse inserts an IV, and she cannot follow the conversation because they aren't saying the right words, they aren't telling her if her baby is okay or not. She flinches at the cold gel squired on her belly, flinches at the worried stare of her husband, but then the most wonderful sound fills the room – the rapid yet perfect heartbeat of her child._

_And her heart starts beating again._

* * *

He watches every movement in and out of her hospital room with bated breath, lives for the updates he receives from those on her case. Doctor Abell is gracious enough not to question why Chuck is sitting outside his wife's room rather than sitting around her bed with the baby's grandmother and godmother, but the doctor is far too practical to give him the information that he really needs.

Information about the baby's heart rate and the progression in the dilation of his wife's cervix is helpful but not comforting. He wants to know if she is nervous, if she is sweating under the pains of labor even though she has claimed for their whole lives that she never sweats, if her mouth matches her eyes, if she still loves him. But he cannot formulate the questions, cannot figure out how to do anything other than sit here.

The nurses try to force him to move, but their efforts are easily thwarted by his charm or a couple of hundreds discretely slipped into their hands when that inevitably fails because he's too distracted by what is occurring behind the closed door to his right to even pretend to flirt. Money talks even when Chuck Bass cannot.

Lily and Dorota give up trying to make him move to the waiting room, but that doesn't stop Nate from making his own attempt when he arrives at Lennox Hill. Chuck is forceful in his refusal to move and equally forceful in his refusal to allow Nate to pull up a chair and sit next to him. He deserves to be alone, deserves to suffer in silence.

Nate makes some joke about how all he is missing is his signature glass of scotch, but the joke falls flat and even Nate winces at the poor taste it leaves in his mouth. Eventually, a phone call from an editor at the _Spectator_ drags his attention away from his best friend, and Chuck is left to stew in his own thoughts again.

As time ticks by slowly he stands and sits repeatedly as the he makes the decision to barge into the room and then changes his mind. She makes him weak, makes him indecisive and unsure. This situation makes him weaker, makes him unstable and irresolute. She once told him that he carried her but now his floundering, unable to carry her or himself.

The only thing keeping him grounded right now is feeling of silk in his palm. His deepest secret is crumpled in his hand; the worn out spot eaten away by the oils of his skin from too much fondling.

* * *

_For just a moment, Doctor Abell can see the human side to the most ruthless businessman in Manhattan. The man is leaning into his wife's hand, desperately trying to press it closer to his cheek and transfer his body heat to his wife. The concern is evident even to those who do not personally know the formidable Chuck Bass. _

"_Mister Bass, Mrs. Waldorf-Bass," the doctor greets as he enters his newest patient's room. The fluids and medically administered nutrients have transformed his patient's coloring from gray to pale, and Doctor Abell is glad to see the change. _

"_How are you feeling, Mrs. Waldorf-Bass?" The doctor asks as he pulls the rolling stool over to Blair's bedside and takes a seat. _

"_Better," the petite brunette replies softly. Her voice is laced with concern; her feelings are dependent entirely on what the doctor has to say because even though she heard the heartbeat and saw the baby on the ultrasound, the fear is still lurking underneath it all. _

"_Good," Doctor Abell replies as he flips open the chart in his hand. "I wanted to talk to you about the frequency of your morning sickness."_

"_This is not morning sickness," Chuck interjects._

"_No, it's not," Doctor Abell responds in agreement. "I spoke to your primary care physician –" _

"_I'm not bulimic," Blair harshly interrupts. "Not anymore. I haven't relapsed."_

_The doctor eyes soften at how quickly his patient is to assure him that she has not relapsed, that she is not hurting her baby. The speediness might be indicative of the standard denial associated with an eating disorder, but Doctor Abell had taken the time to read the rest of his patient's file before jumping to conclusions. _

"_Did your primary care doctor ever discuss hyperemesis gravidarum to you, Mrs. Waldorf-Bass?"_

_The diagnosis had been lurking in the back of his mind since he first examined Mrs. Waldorf-Bass; her appearance and symptoms reminiscent of a case he dealt with during his residency at a hospital in Boston ten years ago. But the words clearly mean nothing to his patient, and he does not need confirmation from her to determine that no one did in fact discuss it with her._

"_Hyper…" Blair trails off as she tries to twist her tongue into the words just spoken at her. _

"_Hyperemesis gravidarum," Doctor Abell repeats before elaborating. "It's the medical term for severe nausea and vomiting during pregnancy. The condition is pretty rare – it affects less than two percent of pregnant women – so I'm not surprised your doctor hasn't mentioned it to you. Most women who have it spend their entire pregnancy not knowing."_

"_And you think Blair has this…disease?"_

"_Not a disease, Mister Bass," the doctor automatically corrects. "And, yes, I do. Given her severe dehydration, malnourishment, and vomiting plus the fact that she has lost a significant amount of weight since the beginning of this pregnancy, I would say Mrs. Waldorf-Bass suffers from HG. A severe case at that." _

"_I didn't have this with my last…" her voice trails off uncomfortably. She does not talk about her first baby; the barely healed wound feeling raw since the stick turned blue this time around._

"_Not all women with HG experience it with every pregnancy. Some, unfortunately, do. But a handful does not."_

"_So what's the cure?" Chuck anxiously asks before adding the unnecessary comment that money is not an issue._

"_Unfortunately, Mister Bass, there isn't a cure. All we can do is continue to monitor Mrs. Waldorf-Bass' nutrition and weight, giving her intravenous hydration and nutrition as needed."_

"_There's nothing you can do?" Chuck asks with a tone that says he finds the doctor's answers unacceptable._

"_I know how frustrating this condition can be but, unfortunately, this condition will last throughout her pregnancy."_

"_And what about the baby?" Blair asks as she drapes a hand protectively across her belly. The reaction is typical of what Doctor Abell sees on a daily basis as an obstetrician, but even he is surprised to see Chuck Bass place his hand on top of his wife's. _

"_I won't lie to you. There are risks – low fetal birth weight, preterm delivery, delayed development."_

_The words are harsher than he intended, and he quickly tries to back pedal as his patient's husband recoils in fear. _

"_That's for severe cases, ones that largely go untreated. Most of those outcomes have occurred for women who gain less than sixteen pounds during their pregnancy."_

"_But I've lost weight," Blair replies softly, her voice breaking in anguish._

"_And we'll work on that," Doctor Abell assures her. "Diagnosing you is the first step. We've got you on an IV, and we'll come up with a plan for reversing your weight loss."_

"_Or," the doctor quickly amends as he does not want to presume, "you and your doctor can talk –"_

"_No," Blair interrupts, "the woman is a quack. I want you. My husband just wasn't comfortable with a male gynecologist."_

_She throws a teasing smile at her husband, but his face is hardened against her as he mulls over the knowledge just imparted on him. The doctor watches as his patient places her hand against his cheek, attempts to pull him out of his thoughts and back into the moment. _

"_Chuck?"_

_Her voice sounds as though she has had far too much practice with this particular gesture and when his eyes meet hers, Doctor Abell suddenly feels like he is intruding on a private moment. The anguish and fear is clearly written across the formidable man's face as his eyes meet those of his wife. But just as fleetingly the emotions are gone, locked away behind calculating eyes._

"_What's the threat to Blair's health?"_

_The question is oddly phrased; the use of the word 'threat' clearly demarcating his position on this diagnosis._

"_The malnutrition and dehydration are our biggest concerns and are what is causing her dizziness and fatigue. Another concern is depression. The blood you saw might have been from a tear at the junction of your stomach and esophagus caused by severe vomiting. If inadequately treated, HG can cause renal failure, jaundice, splenic avulsion."_

"_So she can die from this?"_

"_Mister Bass," Doctor Abell is quick to assure, "death is very rare."_

_Just as soon as the words are out of his mouth, though, he knows they were the wrong ones. Because in a flash Chuck's hand is removed from its place across his wife's belly as though he has been burned. _

"_But this stops just as soon as the baby is removed, correct? An abortion would stop this all?"_


	4. Part Four

**Author's Note:** Pardon this brief interruption, but I wanted to thank you all from the bottom of my heart for your lovely reviews. I'm currently in the middle of finals so I have not had the time to respond to you all individually. Just know that I read and cherish every one of them.

* * *

Sometime around two in the morning – long after Lily has returned home and Dorota has made the journey back to Queens – his best friend finds him still sitting in a chair in the middle of the hallway. Despite their youth, the late hour has taken its toll on the blonde and he can barely suppress a yawn as he tries to rally his friend out of his chair for a quick stroll around the block.

It's not healthy to sit here just staring in to space, he reasons. It's not healthy to sit here just beating yourself up, he tells his best friend. His friend just tells him to fuck off.

He is left standing there, waffling between returning to the waiting room, heading home, or attempting to drag a chair down the hall to sit next his best friend yet again. Except just about the time he finally starts to make a decision, the non-pregnant female member of the Non-Judgmental Breakfast Club steps out of the room. Serena still looks amazing despite the late hour and the fact that she has spent the last ten hours coaching her friend through labor.

"How is she?" Chuck asks immediately. He stumbles over the words, losing his composure in his desperate need for information.

"Your wife is crazy," she snaps at Chuck before grabbing Nate's coffee cup out of his hand. The coffee is stale, and Serena grimaces at the taste over Nate's weak objection. "Ten hours and counting. No drugs. If I ever am stupid enough to get pregnant, I want the drugs."

"I'll make sure to alert the presses," Nate replies dryly.

"She still won't accept the epidural?" Chuck asks, and Serena affirms her previous statement.

Everyone had reasoned that she would have cracked hours ago, but this is Blair and Chuck knows there is no persuading her once she has set her mind to something. That inane idea that the quality of mother she will make is directly correlated to her ability to deliver this baby naturally entered her head early on into this pregnancy, and nothing has managed to persuade her to drop the idea. Not even ten plus hours of labor, apparently.

"I'm going to get some coffee or something," Serena informs them all as she runs a hand through her blonde locks. "I need a break."

"I'll come with you," Nate says, happy to finally have an activity other than sitting.

"Chuck, you coming?" Serena asks softly.

He glances at the closed door, glances at the expectant faces of his closest friends.

"No," he replies before sinking back into his chair. "She shouldn't be alone."

* * *

_The dip of the bed is so identifiable that even with a sleeping mask over her eyes she immediately knows who it is. Bad habits established during his master's bachelorhood meant the dog she inherited when she said 'I do' spent her entire engagement and nearly her entire marriage trying to crawl in bed with her and Chuck. But this is not Monkey._

_He molds his body around hers, careful not to touch her but close enough that heat radiates off his body towards her. His hot breath tickles the back of her neck despite the thick mass of curls cascading down her back, and she holds her breath as he settles his head against the pillow. She should chastise him, hold fast to the dictates she laid down after she was released from her most recent stay at the hospital. But for the last three nights she has said nothing, falling into a bad habit established during their relationship._

_But then unlike the past three nights where he has at least waited a while before touching her, his hand is quickly stroking her arm lightly under the covers. He scoots himself closer to her, slides his hand to the place her side morphs into belly._

_The slight swell is noticeable now – thanks in large part to the plan she and Doctor Abell developed together – and she waits for him to retract his hand. Except, this time he does not and his hand slides over her belly with such tenderness that her heart clinches. It is all she can do to swallow her emotions and adopt her trademark bitchy tone._

"_Chuck."_

_He stills against her, and she has to stifle a laugh over how he has adopted Monkey's modus operandi. Just because he is not moving, just because he is refusing to acknowledge her presence does not mean that he is no longer in trouble. _

"_Chuck," she repeats, hoping that it will be enough to force him to get out of their – her – bed and return to his own. _

"_Please," he whispers softly against her shoulder blade. "I…I can't bear being separated from you."_

_His words have the desired effect, and she hates how easily he can melt her resolve. She tries to find the words to reject him, but his fingertips are sliding across her belly and she is falling even deeper. She never wanted to be this weak woman, and yet that is all she is any more. Neither of them will discuss this in the morning, and they will return to being at odds over this whole issue. _

_It's her body, her choice; it's his fear, his limitation._

"_It's a boy," she whispers softly into the darkness. She doesn't know if she is trying to sway him to her position or trying to punish him further and force him out her bed and heart for good. _

"_A boy," he repeats softly as his hand stops his ministrations. The sense of wonder and awe and fear in his voice is heartbreaking, and she doesn't have the stomach to tell him that the hand cupping her belly is currently paused right over his son's heart per the last ultrasound. The very notion that he is holding both their hearts at the same time sends her head swimming and her heart soaring. _

_So instead of speaking or kissing him or banishing him from her room, she leans over the edge of the bed and vomits._

* * *

A nurse exits Blair's room mere moments after his closest friends headed to the nearest Starbucks for a better cup of coffee than the swill offered in the hospital cafeteria. The pleading eyes of the man outside this particular patient's door causes her to pause, and she looks at him curiously before she remembers the hasty instructions Carrie had given her as she ran through patient profiles during shift change at midnight.

"_Blair Waldorf-Bass is in room six fifty-two. Her husband, Mister Bass, is outside the door sitting in the chair. He's been given permission to sit there so don't try and move him. Doctor Abell said to give him an update every time you check on Mrs. Waldorf-Bass."_

Of course, Carrie had forgotten to give her the most the important instruction – that Mrs. Waldorf-Bass does not want her husband in the delivery room with her – so Helene has no idea how wrong her next words are.

"You better head in there, Mister Bass. That baby is ready to come now."

If he appears startled by her instructions, she fails to pick up on it as she scurries off to the nurse's station to page Doctor Abell. The knowledge that his wife is now completely alone is enough to override his hesitation at the nurse's misstep, and he pushes open the heavy door that has largely blocked his ability hear anything tonight.

Of course, he is completely unprepared for the sight before his eyes. His wife shifts her body from facing the window to a profile stance as she tries to identify the newest visitor to her room. Her itchy hospital gown is bunched up around her breasts exposing the pale skin of her rounded belly. And there, standing in this particular position, she is a full moon rising against the backdrop of the city.

"You look beautiful," he tells her. She frowns at the familiarity of the voice, angered over the fact that he chooses now to enter her room and see her like this. She doesn't feel beautiful; she feels sweaty and gross and tired and angry.

Oh so angry.

This is not how this was supposed to go. She was supposed to have a quick, easy labor while squeezing the hell out of her husband's hand. Instead, she has a stubborn child that will not enter this world and a husband so lost that she can barely find him.

"Chu –" she begins ready to toss him out of the room, but another crippling contraction cuts her off and the name morphs into one of her cleverer curse words. "Motherchucker!"

Her knees fold as the pain spreads across her body. She cries as another contraction hits; they are coming so quickly that she can barely tell one is ending before another begins. In a heartbeat, his arms are around her, holding her up and keeping her from collapsing into a pitiful puddle on the floor.

"Bass-tard," she growls against his chest. "Where's the doctor? I need to push."

"He's coming," her husband replies as he tightens his grip on her while her fingers dig into his skin.

"Where's Serena? How long does it take to get coffee?"

Her question goes unanswered as another contraction hits. She clings to his biceps as his hands slide down to the small of her back. He knows exactly where to message without the instructions she had so desperately tried to get Serena to follow earlier in the night. She hates him for it.

"You have to go," she cries out while still clinging to him.

"No," he says as she rides out another contraction.

"You have to go," she repeats.

"No," he replies. "I can't…you're in pain, and I need to be here."

"I don't want you here," she says before taking a deep breath. "Not if you aren't going to love us."

"I do. I love you so much."

"But not him," she whimpers as the contraction subsides.

"God, Blair," he snaps as he fumbles for the item in his pocket. Her whole body seizes as another contraction hits, but the silkiness of the item pushed into her hand feels cool against her burning skin. She doesn't have to look to know exactly what it is, and she closes her eyes as his words, at the knowledge of what she is holding as yet another contraction washes over her.

"I do. Don't you understand? I love him, but I love you. And…loosing you would destroy me. I can't…I can't be my father."

* * *

_Dorota offers to pack up Mister Chuck's clothes, but there is something so incredibly therapeutic about throwing his clothes into a heap in the suitcase on their bed that she dismisses Dorota and insists on doing the task herself. If she is going to kick her husband out her their home, then she is going to be the one to wrinkle his precious attire. Dorota and Arthur can be responsible for the actual relocation of his items from their bedroom, but she wants him to know that she had a hand in him reestablishing his residency at the Empire._

_She runs through the packing list she has formulated in her mind. She hates herself for continuing to play the wife and making a list just as though they are heading off for vacation together. This horror show isn't even close to being a vacation. _

_The realization that she forgot to raid his bowtie collection angers her further, and she revels in the idea of wrinkling his treasured bowties so badly that there isn't enough starch in all five boroughs to return them to their previously pristine condition. She wrenches open the drawer where he stores his collection with as much force as she can muster given her weakened state, careful not to tax herself too much least her symptoms return._

_His collection is far too expansive for her to be able to pack them all, and she plans to search only for his favorites and send them along with the rest of his clothing in a mutilated state. Except what she sees when the opens the drawer completely distracts her from her plan, and she releases a shaky breath as she gathers the item in her hand._

_This particular bowtie is far too small to fit around her husband's neck. It is far too small to fit around anything other than a child's neck. No, not a child._

_A baby._

_There must be over two dozen of these miniature bowties. Some are reminiscent of the ones she knows are his favorites, others are entirely unique, and a few are formed from the fabric of dresses she has designed for her B for Waldorf line. The implication of these tiny items stuns her, and she is still gasping for words when Dorota enters the closet._

"_Miss Blair, Arthur is here for Mister Chuck's things."_

"_Dorota," she says in an uncharacteristically soft tone as she turns on her heels and shows her maid the items in her hands. "Did you know about these?"_

"_Uh," Dorota stammers out as she falters for the right words. She had seen them only a few times, mainly when Mister Chuck's clothes were returned from the cleaners and she had returned them to their proper places in his closet. _

_The tiny bowties had overwhelmed the maid the first time she saw them, reducing her to crying in the pantry over the hope and love Mister Chuck pretended not to have. Many times she had thought about showing them to Miss Blair, of leaving them out so that she would be sure to find them. But in the end she had not, too afraid that the existence of these baby bowties would send Miss Blair over the edge or – worse – that discovery would cause Mister Chuck to lose the only thing tethering him to his son. _

"_He loves this baby?" Blair asks when Dorota does not immediately reply. It's a statement disguised as a question, and Dorota's answer is wholly unnecessary._

"_Of course, Mister Chuck loves baby. Mister Chuck never have real family, never know real love until you. He just scared of losing you or losing baby or losing both so he pretends not to love. But he loves."_


	5. Part Five

_He hasn't seen Chuck since before the accident in Central Park, and he is personally glad to see the man outside of photographs accompanying articles in the business section of New York Times. Of course, what he really wants to discuss is those items that had made the front page after Chuck stopped coming – the wedding of Blair Waldorf to Prince Louis, the loss of his company, the accidental death of Chuck's father and subsequent accusation of murder. _

_You can lead a man to therapy, but you cannot make him an active participant. _

_The fact that Chuck called him is a good sign. Still, the last twenty-two minutes have passed in uncomfortable silence, wasting nearly half of this hour-long appointment, and the therapist in the plush armchair across from Chuck Bass decides to change his tactic_

"_Chuck, I can't help you if you refuse to speak."_

_The young businessman across from him seems unaffected by his words, never lifting his gaze from the metal band across his finger. His doctor had heard about the marriage of his patient, seen the announcement of marriage in the New York Times one morning during breakfast as his youngest daughter drooled over the dresses and hairstyles of the brides photographed for the paper. _

_His patient married the woman he spent months talking but not talking about, the woman who had once accompanied him here not to support him but to find out how to turn her then fiancé into him. You didn't need as many degrees as him to see the anguish and pain in the eyes of his patient over her request, to see that the anguish and pain has since returned._

_Time ticks by slowly as he debates his next move, contemplates the perfect way to formulate his next prompting question. Years of clinical experience mean nothing when you're dealing with this particular patient. Chuck Bass is a master manipulator, fluent in the art of masking his emotions and hiding his demons behind alcohol and women and business ventures. That had started to unravel a few years before his therapist had met him, and immense progress had been made during their time together. However, the last time Chuck had been here was years ago and, although his patient's breath smells nothing like alcohol, the ability to deny, deny, deny remains. _

"_I kiss vomit off her lips."_

_The statement is confusing, catching the doctor off-guard. He is accustomed to convoluted responses and his brain races as he tries to figure this one out. He could assume the 'her' is Blair Waldorf-Bass; assume the vomit has something to do with Mrs. Waldorf-Bass' eating disorder._

_(His patient has closely guard that secret, but his eldest daughter attends Constance and used to be obsessed with this rumors website before it was shut down. He's not proud of it, but his daughter possibly knows more about his patient and his patient's wife than he does.)_

"_I place my fingers against her skin and I feel her pulse," Chuck elaborates without look up from his hand. "It thuds against my fingers, but the rhythm is different. It's weak. It's wrong."_

"_Are you talking about Blair? Is Blair sick?"_

"_I thought…I thought the darkest thought I'd ever have, the worst thing I would ever do would be to treat her like property, to lose my temper the night she told me Louis proposed to her," Chuck continues without acknowledging his therapist's question. These examples are all issues they had worked through together; moments in Chuck's past that he has since apologized for, tried to make amends over, and more importantly learned from. _

"_But this? This is it."_

"_What's 'this', Chuck?"_

"_I lie awake at night because I'm plagued with thoughts of losing her, of history repeating itself. And all I can think is that I did this."_

"_What did you do, Chuck?"_

_The therapist is trying to mask his alarm, trying to morph it into concern for his patient rather than his wife. He knows that Chuck is not an inherently violent person, that a combination of alcohol and drugs and anger and abandonment issues had pushed him over the edge that night. He knows that Chuck is remorseful, that the man across him will carry that night with him for the rest of his life. _

"_I asked her to have a baby with me. She was scared, but I told her it would be alright. That I'd protect her because a man takes care of his family," Chuck replies. His voice breaks as he shifts his gaze from the ring to his therapist. "But she's sick. This is killing her."_

"_How is she sick?"_

"_She has this condition – hyperemesis gradvidarum," Chuck spits out. His tongue no longer trips over the words. He has become far too skilled in the pronunciation and explanation. "She vomits all the time. Sometimes there's blood. And her skin – she's so fucking pale. The IVs don't help. Not really."_

"_What does her doctor say?"_

"_That this will stop once she gives birth, or…"_

"_Or what?"_

_His patient looks away, swallowing his words as his fingers slip into the pocket of his suit coat. The therapist waits a moment, curious to see what his patient might show him before the realization of just exactly what his patient is saying washes over him._

"_Chuck, did you suggest that she have an abortion?"_

_The doctor doesn't even need verbal or physical confirmation to know that is exactly what happened. He also knows, though, that suggesting such an action to a woman who lost a pregnancy in a horrific accident probably did not go over well._

"_A man…a man doesn't try to have his own son killed, but…" Chuck trails off, shifting in his seat and clutching the item in his hand tighter. "This is Blair. She…"_

"_I'm no better than my father."_

* * *

"I have to push," she whines over his declaration just as the door to her exam room is pushed open.

"Not yet, Blair," Doctor Abell says as he pulls on a pair of latex gloves. For a moment, Chuck is distracted from the woman in his arms as he mulls over when exactly Blair's very male doctor became familiar enough with his wife to call her by her first name.

"Let's get Mrs. Waldorf-Bass back in bed," Doctor Abell tells Nurse Helene. He is smart enough to know not to say anything about the person who is currently keeping his patient upright, and he is well-versed in silent, brooding types to know better than to say anything to Mister Bass about his relocation from the chair out in the hallway. His announcement, however, is firmly rejected with a shake of Blair's head and the desperate way she clutches to her husband.

"It hurts more when I lay down," Blair finally whimpers out between contractions. "I want to stand."

"Alright," Doctor Abell says with a shrug and joking eyes as he takes a seat on his stool. "I've delivered babies in odder positions."

He can feel Chuck Bass' harsh glare on him as he bunches up the back of Blair's gown and begins probing her with his gloved fingers. Things have progressed rapidly since Helene last checked on his patient, and Doctor Abell cannot suppress the smile that ghosts across his lips at the thought. At this rate, he'll make it home in time to have breakfast with his little girl before she leaves for school.

"What are you smiling about?" Chuck snarls at him, and the severity of his tone causes Doctor Abell to jump slightly.

"Gravity is working in our favor, Mister Bass," Doctor Abell replies. "I can feel the head. Would you like to feel, Blair?"

The question stuns Mister Bass and he watches with wide-eyed abandonment as his wife reaches down and touches herself without hesitation. It took him weeks to get her to do that, months to get her to do it and allow him just to watch. And yet here she is simultaneously grossed out and blissfully happy at the feeling of the intrusion between her legs.

"Is that…_hair_?"

"Full head by the look of things."

"Oh my…" Blair trails off before the sense of wonderment is wiped off her face. "Where…where'd he go?"

"That's just the way contractions work," the doctor replies before delving into a rather elaborate yet unnecessary explanation of the push and pull of contractions.

"Would you like to feel as well, Mister Bass?" Helene asks as she holds out a singular latex glove to him.

"I…"

"Feel your son, Chuck," Blair mumbles against his chest as she rides out another painful contraction.

He tries to channel Chuck Bass, tries to muster a salacious grin at his wife's demand that he touch her so intimately. Except this is different, this is forcing him to confront every fear coursing through his body, and he hasn't even verbally given consent before Helene is helping pull the glove onto his hand and guiding it between his wife's legs.

He wants to scream, wants to tell everyone that he doesn't need instructions in touching his wife. Except this is different, this is not the same as what they do in the back of his limo or in the coat closet or in their bed or anywhere else. This silkiness is different, and he retracts his hand immediately at the feeling of the pulsing heat.

"Next contraction, Blair, I want you to push," Doctor Abell instructs. He barely manages to speak the words before Blair is clutching onto her husband's shoulders and bearing down with all her might.

"I need you to push harder," Doctor Abell says as the contraction subsides.

The long hours of labor catch up with her in the moment, and she slumps further into her husband's embrace in exhaustion.

"I can't," she whimpers. "I'm tired."

"You can do this," both the doctor and the nurse urge, but their words are entirely ineffective because they are not the ones she wants to here.

"I can't."

He pulls her as close to him as her swollen form will allow and gently tips her chin up so that she's looking at him. Neither of them seems to care that he's touching her with the same gloved fingers that were just touching their baby, and his eyes are searching her for some kind recognition or understanding in what he is trying to say.

"You can do this," he finally says when the words fail him. "You're the most powerful woman I know."

"I can't," she repeats. "I'm only powerful when I have you."

"You have me," he reminds her. "Mind, body, scheme. You have me in all the ways."

"Not the one that matters," she bites out bitterly as another contraction racks her body.

"I need you to push, Blair," her doctor interrupts.

"Push, Blair," Chuck instructs. "Don't allow my limitations to paralyze you, too."

"Love is not a limitation," she manages to say between contractions and gritted teeth. "Love me. Love him."

"Always," he replies as he presses the tiny bowtie and the cool metal of his wedding ring into her palm tightly.

There are three screams and ten nail marks in his bicep that he is sure are going to scar before the most beautiful sound in the world – the piercing cry of his baby – fills the room.

* * *

_She has barely managed to clasp her bra and admire her appearance in the full length mirror before his hands are on her. He's trailing his fingers across her hipbones, planting kisses along the slope of her exposed neckline. _

"_Chuck," she drags out, "I have to leave for work."_

"_Me too," he replies with a salacious grin and no plans of stopping. His hands are sliding across the flat plane of her belly, dipping dangerously close to the place where desire and heat are pooling between her legs. He teases her gently then retracts his hands and moves them towards her breasts. Just as soon as he makes contact, though, she lets out a hiss. _

_Not a hiss of desire but one of pain._

_The sound causes him to pause, and she can see his quirked eyebrow in the reflection in the mirror. _

"_Still sensitive?"_

"_Because you keep pawing me like some wild animal," she snaps as she retracts herself from his embrace and stomps off to her closet to select her outfit for the day. She is surprised that he does not follow her, and the lack of action on his part distracts her from the task at hand. Finally, she settles on a dress she purchased just last week during a marathon shopping trip with Serena. She rips it from the hanger and stalks out of her closet with the green dress draped over her arm only to run directly into her husband._

"_Chuck," she snaps because he is not supposed to be on this side of the room. This is her side of the bedroom, and she shouldn't have to deal with him here. _

"_Take the test, Blair," he replies smoothly as he presses the pink and blue box into her hand. _

"_I'm not pregnant," she quickly informs him. She tries to bypass him, but he steps in front of her again and blocks her exit plan._

"_I beg to differ," he informs her. "Your body begs to differ."_

"_And what do you know about my body?"_

"_I know everything, Waldorf," he replies with a grin that irritates her to no end. "I know your skin pebbles under my touch, the slope of your neck, the sensitive skin on the inside of your thigh, how your eyes roll in the back of your head when I kiss your c—"_

"_Enough," she snaps. "I'm not pregnant. I'm just a little late. I'm stressed. I've been late before."_

"_But you haven't been purposely having sex without condoms or birth control before," he pointy tells her. "You haven't actively been trying to get pregnant."_

_She refuses to meet his gaze as he talks to her, tries to loose herself in the pattern of the dress in her arms. His fingers gently touch her chin, pulling her out of her determination and forcing her to look at him._

"_Take the test, Blair." _

"_Fine," she snaps as the shoves her dress into his hands and snatches the test from him. She slams the door in his face when he tries to follow her into the bathroom. He may know everything about her, but she draws the line at letting him watch her pee. There are some things a girl has to keep a secret._

_Except, apparently, the same line does not apply to pregnancy tests because she wrenches open the bathroom door just as soon as she is done, marches right towards where he is sitting on their bed, and drops the test into his hand. She grabs the dress from his lap and disappears into the depths of her closet to find the perfect shoes and headband to accessorize with. _

_She is perfectly aware of the passing time, perfectly aware that she is shaking so badly that she can barely hold onto the white headband in her hand. She is also perfectly aware that the footsteps behind her are his own; perfectly aware the anticipation is suffocating them both._

"_Blair," his shaking voice calls out to her, but she will not turn around to face him. She will not see the disappointment on his face. Her shoulders slump under the weight of her own sadness as she tries to find her voice._

"_I told you I wasn't pregnant."_

"_Blair," he repeats, trying to get her to turn around and face this with him. She continues to refuse, plucking a new headband out of her collection and holding it up to her dress for a comparison. "Blair, it's positive."_

_The objects in her hand fall to the ground as she rapidly twists around to face him. His hair is disheveled as though he ran his fingers through it the whole time he was waiting on their bed, but the grin on his face is completely out of character for Chuck Bass. She's never seen his smile so big. She is in his arms before she knows it; her brain reeling over the information as his hand slides down to her flat belly._

"_I'm pregnant?" She asks quietly as she tries to digest his words. There's a rush of emotions – elation, happiness, wonderment, and, yes, fear – and she pulls the test out his hands to assure herself of the results. There it is – a blue plus sign. _

_Clear as day. _

_No complicated love triangles. No need for Serena to buy a new outfit for a paternity hearing. No doubt. Blair Waldorf-Bass is pregnant with Chuck Bass' baby._

"_We're having a baby," she says in wonderment._

"_I told you, Mrs. Bass. I know you."_


	6. Part Six

**Author's Note:** The proposal, the wedding, the flash-forward? My friend now owns photographic proof that I lost it entirely during the series finale.

* * *

"Ah," Serena says as she takes a long drink of her hot coffee. The coffee shop is largely empty; the two of them caught in that awkward time when people are still out partying and haven't stumbled in bleak and bleary for an early morning pick-up.

"Better?" Nate asks as he pockets his cell phone and returns his attention to the blonde seated across from him.

"I don't get it," Serena replies. "I mean, we're in the middle of the Upper East Side. You'd think the hospital would at least have decent coffee."

Nate gives her a half smile behind the lid of his own cup, and his eyes stray to the clock hung on the wall above her head. Being a newspaperman (even if it is online) means he always needs to know what time it is, always needs to know if a deadline is looming over him.

"How long you think we need to wait?"

"Twenty minutes or so," Serena replies before taking another drink.

"Think there'll still be a hospital when we get back?"

The joke pulls up the corners of her mouth, and she can't help but let out a small snort of laughter. Knowing her best friend, knowing the situation, she wouldn't be surprised if they did in fact return to find a giant crater where the hospital once stood.

"Things have a tendency to go nuclear when it comes to Chuck and Blair," she concedes.

"They still sleep in the same bed," Nate informs her, leaning forward in his seat and whispering it like he is fearful Chuck will hear him from four blocks away. She seems shocked at his information but, then again, he's not entirely surprised. Chuck is simultaneously secretive and talkative when it comes to his relationship with Blair.

"And they haven't killed one another yet?"

"Obviously not," Nate replies.

"And they do what? Just lay there? Talk? Pretend everything is okay?" Serena asks before the inquisitive gleam in her eyes is replaced by repulsion. She holds up a hand, tries to stop him from responding. "Never mind. I don't want to know."

They both kind of shutter at the thought because they both know that Chuck and Blair have a tendency to try and avoid their issues through massive amounts of sex, which frequently becomes very public sex.

"I wonder how Chuck managed to finagle that one," Serena muses. "Blair was set on kicking him out, but then she said she found something that changed everything. Wouldn't tell me what it was, though."

"Huh," Nate replies.

"What?"

"I can't believe he showed that to her."

"Showed what to her?"

"Months ago, right before we went to that dinner party and they announced that Blair was pregnant, I showed up at Chuck's office and saw him with a new bowtie."

The answer fails to live up to the hype Nate's previous actions had built, and Serena slumps back into her chair in disappointment. Chuck's bowties are nothing new to gawk over, and she can't see how a new bowtie would change her best friend's mind so quickly.

"It was a bowtie meant for a baby," Nate elaborates. "I'm pretty sure he carries it around with him at all times."

"What?"

"Yeah," Nate affirms. "Why else do you think his hand is always in the pocket of his pants?"

"I don't know," Serena replies as her brain mulls over the information. She remembers catching Chuck with his hand in his pocket multiple times, but she had always assumed that she had actually caught him with his hand down his pants. She had protested in disgust, told him that he needed to learn to control himself. "I thought he has his hand down his pants. I mean, he is Chuck Bass."

They share a grimace over that idea, and are quick to drown the suggestion with a long drink from their respective coffee cups. Nate's eyes slide from the cup in the hand to the watch on his wrist. He's not exactly excited to return to the sterile waiting room, but he had promised Lily that he wouldn't leave Chuck alone for long. Plus, the fear of their joke about nuclear fallout actually becoming reality lurks in the back of his mind.

"Think they know what we're up to?"

"Getting coffee? We did invite Chuck," Serena teases lightly before her tone turns serious. "Blair's in labor, and Chuck's sitting in a chair in the middle of the hallway. I think we might just get away with this one."

"All we're missing is our own headband and bowtie."

* * *

_Tonight, he has a wander eye. He tries to be attentive to the men and women congregated around him, tries to keep up his end of the conversation. But at nearly every moment his eyes stray and begin appraising the women in the room._

_Their dresses are too demure or too haughty. Their hair is too light or too dark. Their lips are too red or too pink. The slope of their neck is far too obtuse or too acute._

_His eyes eventually settle on one woman in particular, and he rushes out an apology before extracting himself from the group and heading over towards her. The woman has no idea he's coming, but the eyes of the man she is talking to widen as he approaches._

"_Excuse us," he says as his fingers curl around the woman's bicep. He pulls her from the conversation before she can protest, dragging her to a more secluded section of the room. The woman whirls around to face him, moving to cross her arms over her chest with a flip of her trademark hair._

"_God, Chuck," she snaps, "Blair might like the whole jealous caveman act, but –"_

"_Where's Blair?" He interrupts. He tries to keep his voice calm, tries not to worry the blonde too much. _

"_I don't know," Serena replies. "She was with you last time I saw her."_

"_And then she left to go talk to you," Chuck informs her. "That was fifteen minutes ago."_

"_I haven't seen her. She's probably just making her way around the room. You know how she is at these things. Has to cement her Queen B status."_

"_She's not here," he says with a shake of his head. His eyes scan over the room, searching for his wife amongst the crowd. Out of the corner of his eye, he spies brunette hair and red gown, and he doesn't need Serena to point him in the direction of the woman pausing on the perimeter of the party. He starts to breathe out a sigh of relief, but chokes on the air as his wife turns on her heels and darts back in the direction she came from._

"_Is this some kind of game between you two?" Serena asks before the grin falls off her face. "Wait. I don't want to know about you and Blair playing 'Where's Waldorf?'. Just lock the door, please."_

_He can't even muster a salacious smirk for his stepsister, too concerned about getting across the packed ballroom and reaching his wife. The cocktail waitress gives him directions as to which way to go, and he doesn't even pause before pushing open the door at the end of the hall marked ladies' room._

_The smell of vomit assaults his nose; the sound of her retching assaults his ears._

"_Blair," he calls out softly. Even if all the other stalls were occupied, he would know exactly which one she is in. The puddle of red fabric and the peak of her complementary high heels is a dead giveaway. The response to his call is her expelling the contents of her stomach yet again._

"_Open the door, Blair."_

"_I'm alright," she replies softly. "I guess the baby doesn't like foie gras."_

_The excuse isn't entirely satisfactory; the baby doesn't seem to be particularly fond of anything she eats these days. But he has zero experience with pregnancy, and he decides to concede to her knowledge and wait for her to exit the stall rather than breaking down the door._

_He is not prepared for the sight of her when the stall door swings open. Her skin is alarmingly pale, and there is a speckle of something – vomit, maybe – near the corner of her mouth. She clutches the stall door as her stomach rolls again and has to take several settling breaths before she can stand beside him at the sink. _

_She grimaces at her appearance in the mirror, releases a shaky sigh as she reaches for a cloth to wipe her mouth with. Her head spins with the movement, and her husband's quick reflexes are the only thing keeping her from crashing to the floor. Tears spring to her eyes at the look of absolute fear on his face, and she can barely protest as he scoops her up into his arms bridal style. _

"_We're leaving," he tells her forcefully over her weak objections. _

_She wants him to put her down, allow her to walk out of this benefit with her dignity in check. People are, after all, going to think she's a giant lush if her husband carries her out of here like this. But he will have none of it, and the room parts like the Red Sea as he moves through the crowd. _

_This isn't his hotel, but the wait staff here spring into action at the look on his face. His driver is called, instructed to pick them up now. Their coats are fetched from the coat room, and he tenderly wraps them both around her as they take the elevator down to the lobby. Arthur is already waiting out front, and she is tucked into the limo against her husband before she can even blink._

"_Arthur, take us to the hospital."_

"_No," she protests, trying to extract herself from his lap and show him that she is perfectly fine. But she can barely move; the exhaustion and the nausea just too much to overcome._

"_Blair," he says as he eyes rake over her weakened state._

"_Chuck, no," she snaps. "I just wanna go home and lay in bed with you."_

_He mulls over her request; the fear and worry encumbering his ability to immediately agree with her wishes. A soft hand playing with the hair at the nape of his neck does him in, though, and he finds himself pressing his lips against hers. Maybe he just wants assurance that she is okay; maybe he just wants to breathe life into her pale features. Either way, he doesn't seem to mind the taste of the vomit on her lips._

"_Home, Arthur," he instructs when she breaks the kiss and buries her face into his neck._

"_Can we watch Tiffany's?" She asks softly. Her breath tickles his skin, but he finds himself pressing her closer and swallowing any protest. She'll feel better after watching Audrey, he reasons, and he'll feel better when she moves into the next trimester and the morning sickness – all day sickness, he corrects bitterly – finally ends._

* * *

Months ago, when things had been at their worst, Dorota had tried to impart some Polish saying on her pregnant charge. The words had fallen on deaf ears at the time simply because Blair did not wish to hear them. Avoidance – the ability to pretend the worst is not happening – has always been Blair's self-preservation tactic, much to the annoyance of both her beloved maid and best friend. Now, however, the words come trickling back to her.

"_We have saying in Poland. Some men become papa when wife becomes pregnant, and some men never become good papa. But some become papa the first time they see baby. Their whole world shifts; you can see it in eyes."_

She missed Chuck's expression the first time he saw the baby because she had been far too distracted by the wiggling mass held in Doctor Abell's arms to notice anything else. Her own world had shifted in the moment, and she was too busy marveling over the beautiful and delicate newborn baby boy to pay any attention to the man that helped create this slice of perfection as the doctor and nurse help seat her on the hospital bed.

She had counted fingers and toes – ten and ten – and ran her fingers over the contours of his beautiful ears and nose. She had marveled at his mass of dark locks and lost herself in the depths of his little eyes. But then she noticed her husband's fingers trailing after her own, watched as he brought one tiny hand up to his lips, and finally saw the shift Dorota had talked about.

Sometimes the way Chuck Bass looks at her overwhelms her, but the way he is looking at their son robs her of every breath in her body. She finds herself reaching up to brush the tears he has silently shed off his cheek as her own tears well up in her eyes. Her husband melts into her palm, twists his head so he can press a soft kiss to the smooth skin.

"He's amazing," he chokes out. "You're amazing."

She doesn't know what to say to him, and so she turns her attention back to the baby in her arm. Losing herself in perfection is far easier than losing herself in him.

"B, you had the baby!"

Serena's chirpy voice distracts them both from the beauty in her arms, and they both glance at the man and woman standing at the entrance of their room.

"Ugh," Nate says as he gets a better look at the gooey mass in Blair's arms. "I'll come back after they've cleaned him up."

"Is he healthy?" Serena asks as she sheds her coat and steps towards the hospital bed. Yesterday, the appearance of the doctor between her best friend's legs would have grossed her out, but sitting through ten hours of labor with Blair largely cured her of that. She knows more about cervixes and dilation than she ever wanted to know, and she did not sit through all of that just to miss the first few moments with her godson.

"He's perfect," Chuck quickly replies.

"I'm going to clean him up now," the nurse interjects as she scoops up the baby. "Make him presentable for your friend."

Fear and suspicion flickers across both their faces as Helene carries the baby to the far corner of the birthing suite. The longing to stay with their child is evident, but the only one who can go anything about it is Chuck and he follows his son like a puppy.

Close on his heels. Inquisitive and eager.

"And you two?" Serena asks as she desperately tries to avoid glancing at the placenta being delivered by the doctor between Blair's legs. "Are you okay?"

"He loves his son," Blair replies softly as she absentmindedly fondles the crushed bowtie in her hand and stares past her friend at her husband and baby across the room. "He loves that little boy."

"He loves you, too," Serena gently reminds her best friend after she spies the piece of silk between her friend's fingers.

"Yes, he does," Blair confirms. "And I love him. We'll figure this out."

"Because you're Chuck and Blair?"

"Because we're more than just that."


	7. Part Seven

**Author's Note: **Once again I am struggling to find the words to thank you all for your lovely reviews. I've never written for a fandom that leaves such detailed and supported reviews as this one so thank you, thank you, thank you.

* * *

Every morning, before she removes her sleeping mask and faces reality, she lies in bed and relishes in the feeling of the child inside her stretching and moving. He rarely kicks, more considerate than his father who restlessly moves throughout the night. But he rolls and twists during the early morning almost as if to say that he is here, that he is fine, that he needs her to keep fighting for him, that a dream awaits and the nightmares will end.

So she panics when she awakens in a dimly lit hospital room with a throbbing ache between legs. She has been here before, awoken from a long slumber with a dull pain that magnifies with every word. Her heart beats rapidly as her eyes sweep to the chair beside her in the desperate hope that she will not see Serena perched next to her.

Maybe this is a dream. Maybe this is a nightmare. Maybe this is reality.

The rapid thumping quickens rather than slows when she sees Chuck cuddling a tiny buddle to his chest. The adoration is evident, and tears spring to her eyes when she sees how four tiny fingers come nowhere close to wrapping around just one of her husband's fingers. The soft whimper she releases catches his attention, and she watches as concern slips back onto his face. He wonders if she is in pain, wonders if she wants him to leave, and he asks her such even though it kills him to do so.

"You…he…" she blubbers, and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He wants to comfort her, wants to stand and sink into the bed beside her, and his eyes shift from the babe in arms to the babe in the bed and back again. (She hates when he calls her that, and the memory of her indignation brings a twisted smile to his lips.)

Helene had been such a godsend, helping to adjust his arms and teaching him to support the newborn's head so that he would finally stop shaking at the idea of holding his son. Yet all of her instructions had been about the seated position, and he is nowhere near confident enough in his abilities to even considering standing and moving the minimal distance from his chair to her bed.

"He's so smart," he offers her. He merely had been trying to tuck the white blanket back around his son – _his son!_ – when tiny fingers had encompassed a big one. All the books he read in secret, the websites he trolled at work said that the child would be too young to grab. Yet his son had grabbed his finger, clutched it tightly as though to say that he knows exactly who he is and that he is not letting go.

"I mean, with you as his mother, I figured he would be. But he's so smart. So very smart."

"And you love him," she replies as her voice mimics the break in his.

It's neither a question nor a statement but rather a fact and they are both left breathless by it. She watches him with wide, doe eyes, and he shifts his gaze back to the child because of how quickly she can pierce his soul.

"I don't want to be his father."

She recoils at his words, recoils at the idea that she could be so very wrong about him.

Again.

Always again and again.

She had allowed him to wallow in his own pain because he returned to her bed night after night. She knows he takes a while to process things, needs the time to feel sorry for himself and run away from his demons before he can do anything about it. Of course, reminders of her – figurative and literal – always help speed along the process, and while she hadn't been able to offer him sex, she had hoped that their nights wrapped in each other's arms would be enough.

He had been there for the birth; she had seen the shift in his eyes and felt the bowtie between their clasped hands. She thought this time would be different because her nightmares about his distance were soothed with the feeling of his body pressed up against hers when she would awaken at four o'clock in the morning to a scream – her scream, his scream – muffled by the heavy duvet draped over the both of them.

There is no heavy duvet this time, only a scream on her lips and an aching pain in her heart. She wants to reach over, snatch her child out his arms before he can do any more damage. And, yet, he does not seem to register the severity of his statement. His eyes are locked on their son's, on facial features that mimic his own.

"I had a father. I don't want to be a father," he elaborates. "I want to be his daddy."

_Father? Daddy? _

It is as though he speaks a language she does not understand, speaks a code she cannot crack. She is tired of this, so very tired. She cannot allow him to continue to manipulate her like this, cannot sit around waiting for the follow-up to hopefully come. She has a child to protect; she has herself to protect.

"I was scared, but...I bought him a purple bowtie," he offers.

"It's not good enough," she interrupts because she cannot be the one to settle, cannot be the one to raise him up and offer him salvation. She is falling apart in the middle of a hospital, and it is his turn to catch her.

"I want to be there for him."

"What does that even mean?"

She needs examples, a concrete explanation of what his declaration means because, technically, he has been there for her throughout this pregnancy. He has physically been there; held her while she slept or lifted her off the floor and carried her to the awaiting limo for trips to the hospital. Emotionally, though? She lost him a long time ago; lost him to limitations and demons they don't talk about and he refuses to fight together.

"I want…" he hesitates, swallows the lump and draws strength from the feeling of hot, newborn skin against his pinky. "I want him to hear praise off my lips rather than condemnation."

_You're so smart._

"I want him to be excited to see me rather than oscillating in fear and hesitation."

_Daddy!_

"I want him to know that I love him, that he is perfect no matter who he becomes or what he does."

The words are her own secret wishes and desires; the reason why she agreed to try for a baby in the first place. Because she will never ever be like her mother, never hold her son's best friend in higher esteem than her own child.

"I'm sorry, Blair," he apologizes. "I'm so sorry."

And she has to believe that he has changed, that he will no longer hold their son at arm's length as punishment for the deterioration of her health ever again. She has to believe this so she can move forward, so she can patch the parts of them back together. Maybe she will drown in the sea of great hope, but searching for the shore is killing them both.

"Blair, Charles!" The bubbling excitement of his mother, her mother, and her stepfather interrupt their moment, their stare down and show down. The baby – oddly silent during his parents' heated words – cries at the intrusion, but the proud grandparents are undeterred as Eleanor scoops him from Chuck's arms and they coo around the newest addition to their patchwork family.

They pull off his blue hat and marvel over his full head of brown hair. They peer into his eyes and debate over which of their children he looks like most. They agree that he has Blair's nose, and she wants to scream at them because all she sees when she looks at him is Chuck.

Chuck. Chuck. Chuck.

"Oh, Blair, he's beautiful," Eleanor coos as the baby settles down. "A little small but that I guess we expected so."

She bristles under her mother's comments. After all, she carried that six pound, eleven ounce little boy for thirty-seven weeks, carried him when others suggested she not. He is small but he is here. He is here, and he is healthy. And he is her greatest accomplishment.

"He's perfect," her husband corrects, and even Blair jumps at the harshness of his tone. Her mother opens her mouth, shuts it as her husband plucks the baby from her arms and gives him a tender hug.

"Not enough!" Cyrus shouts as he hugs the baby again.

The littlest, newest person in the room cries at the exclamation and Chuck can no longer stomach the way they pass along his child. He steps in before Lily has a chance to hold the baby, and it is only after he deposits the unhappy baby into Blair's arms that he can revel in the fact that he moved the baby while standing without any hesitation or a single shaking limb.

The whole room watches as Blair plants a series of kisses against the baby's cheek and hums to him softly until he soothes, watches as she morphs from Blair the daughter and Blair the wife into Blair the mother.

She only stops when he stops crying, and even then it's only to threaten to kick them all out if they treat her baby like half-off wedding dresses at Kleinfeld Bridal. (She may have become slightly addicted to the reality television show filmed at Kleinfeld while on bedrest, if only because she could attribute her near-constant nausea and heartburn to the terrible fashion choices made by the women featured on the show.) They agree, but still they hoover over the bed trying to drink in the sight of their new grandson.

Her mother tells her daughter that Harold and Roman are on their way from Paris to see their first grandson and should be here later tonight, that Dorota will be by after she drops Ana off at school. Lily explains how Serena and Nate went home to rest after being here all night, but plan to return during visiting hours this afternoon. But it is Cyrus – wonderful but bumbling Cyrus – that asks the question everyone really wants to know.

"Does the baby have a name yet?"

Chuck's rigidity catches her eye, and their gazes lock onto one another. They have not discussed names, not since that night early in her pregnancy where they watched _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ and he asked if she still wanted to name her daughter Audrey. She tried to distract him from his question and, at the time, he thought that maybe it was because she named the baby she lost after her idol. It was too early to know the gender, and neither of them had asked after the fact. But some people do that, some people find comfort in selecting a name, and he asked her if she had done the same.

It was a grave error, and he should have known better than to push the conversation past her limits. She does not talk about her miscarriage; she has made her peace with the accident and moved on. The fact that she willingly allowed herself to become pregnant again should have told him as much. Or, so she had said as she rolled away from him and refused to talk to him. Sometime later in the night, though, he felt her tears soak through his silk pajama top, heard her whisper that it was too early to talk about names, and promised to wait with a gentle squeeze to her hand.

The proud grandparents are looking at them eagerly, anticipation and concern building over the idea that they may have inadvertently stepped upon a landmine. But then Blair offers her little boy a smile and says his name in a clear, steady voice.

"Henry Charles Bass."

"Henry?" Chuck croaks out as his tongue stumbles over the letters and his brain stumbles over her decision. He doesn't understand why she would pick this name, doesn't know how to ask her why with everyone exclaiming over the beauty of the name for such a handsome little boy.

"Ah, looks like Baby Bass has quite a fan club," Helene the nurse exclaims as she walks into the crowded room. The nurse had finally convinced Mrs. Waldorf-Bass to hand over the baby and take a nap when visiting hours began, and a quick glance at her patient says the seventy minutes was not nearly enough time for her to recuperate.

"How could you not be a part of his fan club?" The only blonde in the room replies. "Charles, I am happy to serve as chairwoman of this new committee."

"Chairwoman?" Eleanor exclaims. "If anyone should be chairwoman, it should be me."

"I think that might be the role of the mother," Helene interjects as she moves closer to her patient's bed. "And right now his mother needs a moment apart from the fan club for her lactation consultation."

"Oh, um, yes," Cyrus replies as he reaches for his wife and tugs her out the room. "Eleanor and I will be back later."

Lily follows their lead after planting a soft kiss on Charles' cheek and congratulating the new parents once again. Blair gives the nurse a small smile of gratitude that quickly melts off her face as she struggles to follow Helene's instructions.

She feels naked and exposed as she sits with her stretch marked breasts bare for her husband and a nurse she barely knows. She feels frustrated and annoyed when Helene tells her to hold the baby with two hands and hold her breast with the third. She is nearly in tears until she feels her husband's soft fingers against her engorged flesh and watches as he helps trace the nipple around their son's mouth so as entice him to latch on. She lets out a gasp when he does, and a feeling of bliss passes over her as Helene nods approvingly.

"He has good suction," Helene states.

"He's a Bass," her husband retorts, and Blair shoots him a look of disgust for his comment. But Helene is a professional and barely bats an eye as she tries to offer up words of comfort to the new mother.

"He just needed a little extra time, a little enticement until he was sure."

"He gets that from his mother," Chuck replies.

"Chuck," Blair groans, but Mister Bass seems hardly chastised to the nurse.

"Okay," Helene replies with a stifled laugh over the exchange, "I'll leave you two to it. Just push the call button if you need me."

"I can't believe you said that," Blair chastises as the door to her room slams shut.

"Oh, but you can," her husband replies as he sinks back down into his chair, never breaking eye contact from his current fixation. "And you loved it."

"You're disgusting," she retorts.

"And you hate me?" He offers. It's meant to be a joke, but there is something unsettling about the phrase right now for the both of them.

"No," she replies softly as she strokes the nursing baby's head. "I'm still mad at you; I'm still trying to understand you. But I don't hate you."

"Hmm," he drawls out. She doesn't hate him, which is a good sign, and he struggles to find the appropriate response.

"Three words, eight letters," he offers after a long pause.

"I'm yours," she softly confirms. "And Henry is ours."

She doesn't have to look at him to know what he is thinking, doesn't have to hear the words off his lips to know what he wants to ask.

"You once told me that Henry was who you wanted to be, a man who could earn people's respect. That's what I want for our son."

"Blair," he starts, but she interrupts him.

"But I also want him to love to a fault, to learn to own up to his mistakes and never be a coward. I want him to be a person that someone could love as much as I love you. Henry Charles Bass. It's been his name since I found out he was a boy, since I tracked you down at a train station in Paris."

His lips press against hers, and he tries to impart as much love and gratitude and desperation into the kiss as he possibly can. It's only the indignant cry of the babe at her breast that causes him to break away from her, and he smirks at the stunned expression on face as he drops a kiss to the crinkled forehead of their tiny son. Then, for good measure, he plants a kiss against the ribbon of stretch marks across her breast.

"Stop," she moans.

"Never," he replies with a grin as he helps Henry latch back onto her nipple. He watches his son eat with gusto, watches this tiny miracle heal the parts of them that neither knew were broken.

"I had hoped we would have a lot of boys so we could name them after you," she says softly. Her statement is reminiscent of the second to last line in an Audrey Hepburn movie, and he cannot help but smirk at the turnabout of her charade.

"I should have known you'd want to Audrey just as much as you want him to be Henry."

"Why be Audrey Hepburn when you can be Blair Waldorf-Bass? The creative Director of B by Waldorf? The mother of Henry Bass? The wife of Chuck Bass?" She asks as she strokes the baby's cheek and offers him a smile.

"It would have been easier," he tells her. He still defaults to this even after everything. "Safer."

"True," she concedes. "But you and I both don't want safe. We don't want boring. We want us – Chuck and Blair and Henry, Henry and Blair and Chuck. It's why I didn't leave; it's why you stayed."

"We're inevitable," he replies.

"Yes," she agrees. "And you and I both know that we'll get through this together because we've gone to war together, because together we're invincible."

"How can you have so much faith me in?"

"Because you told me you love me, because you waited for me through Louis and Dan. All those things were hard, but you did them for me. For us."

"I'm not Chuck Bass without you," he replies. "Without Henry."

"I know," she whispers softly before holding up the piece of silk that he presented to her earlier and dropping in into his lap. She moves the unlatched, sleeping baby to her lap, unwraps the white blanket and exposes his tiny body to his parents. "You bought this for him. Maybe he should finally wear it?"

She watches in awe as he fumbles around, carefully lifts the infant's head and hooks the bowtie into place. It is wrinkled and crushed; the bow malformed from months of being carried around his pocket. But on their son, on their flawless little boy it looks perfect. It looks like it belongs.

"Hello, Henry Bass," Chuck greets with a tender kiss to his sons puckered lips. "I'm your daddy, and I…I'm new at this, and I'm going to make mistakes. But always remember that I love you. That I love you just as much as I love your mommy. All my demons, all my limitations? They mean nothing compared to you and her."


End file.
